Dieu et mon droit
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is dedicated to Queen and country. John Watson is, too, but not in quite the same way.


_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

* * *

The first time Mycroft Holmes meets John Watson, he stares. Just flat-out stares.

Of course, that's not when John Watson meets Mycroft Holmes. That happens much later. Right now, Mycroft is just a shadowy figure on the other side of the common, totally unnoticeable even if the umbrella does stand out a little on a cloudless day. It dangles from his fingers forgotten, though, and all because Mycroft Holmes is staring at the quiet, unassuming blond man on the bench. John's hands are curled around a paper cup of tea from the little café in the park, his cane rests against the arm of the bench and he's looking around at the people in the park, sharp eyes catching every detail.

Mycroft cannot even begin to understand the sudden wave of fierce protectiveness that hits him at the sight.

Much later, in his office, he tries again to process it. He's never felt anything like it before, except – well – but that's different. Sherlock is his _brother_, after all, and some degree of emotion is to be expected. And, of course, he gets the same sort of feeling when he stands up for Queen and country, but that, he thinks, may just be ingrained in him after so many years on the job.

It makes no sense whatsoever to feel anything for John Watson. Must be a glitch.

He manages to resist testing the theory for almost a full month. It shows startling restraint on his part, and then there is the issue of the Australian negotiations. And Sherlock, of course. As usual. Mycroft knows he should never have expected Scotland Yard alone to keep Sherlock fully occupied. He'll have to come up with another diversion somehow.

That's when John Watson reoccurs to him.

This time, he tunes in via the CCTV network and catches John just as he goes into a flat – dingy bedsit, part of the army's somewhat-failing rehabilitation system for invalided soldiers.

_Hmm._ Something stirs in his mind at that. Soldier? Can that be what's provoking this reaction in him? No, of course not – Mycroft visits military bases all the time in the course of his work, and he's never been particularly bothered about any of the personnel before. That can't be it.

Mycroft decides he can kill two birds with one stone, and sets the wheels in motion. One week later, John moves into 221B Baker Street with Sherlock, and Mycroft activates video feeds all over the flat.

On the same night, John meets Mycroft for the first time. His manner is stoic – expressionless face; quiet, almost-offhand comments (his way of whistling in the dark, and oh, he's _very_ good). He grips the cane in one hand, even though Mycroft can tell he doesn't really need to be using it, and the other – the one that is supposed to have the tremor – is rock-steady.

Mycroft takes his hand, and it's all he can do to maintain his own outward detachment. This – _thing_, whatever it is, this tingling sensation that makes him want to stand up a little taller, straighten his tie, shuffle his feet into parade rest… whatever it is, it's threatening to take over.

He drops the hand and sends John Watson home.

Later that evening, John shoots a man to save Sherlock's life. Mycroft doesn't sleep all night.

Over the next few weeks, Mycroft spends a lot of time watching 221B. He sees Sherlock being his usual self, sulking, questioning, deducing (not sleeping or eating, of course; neither Holmes brother is particularly inclined toward that sort of unnecessary indulgence). He sees Sherlock royally brass off his new flatmate, store body parts in the refrigerator (and elsewhere, but John doesn't see that), play his violin at three o'clock in the morning without really even knowing why he's doing it.

Most of all, he sees Sherlock _change_.

Sherlock has always loved London. It's one of the few things he shares with his brother; the deep, unyielding beat of the city's heart deep within his own. He loves to trace back alleys for no reason other than to memorize them. He loves to stand on rooftops where no man is allowed to set foot, step back, and survey the buildings beneath. He loves the concrete and the cobblestones, old Georgian architecture and shining new steel.

But with John Watson, Sherlock is learning to love the _people_ of London.

He sees tiny alterations in his brother's gestures; sees him stop short of arguing with John one day, sees him hand the doctor his credit card another. He notices when Sherlock's hand creeps toward his violin and _doesn't_ pick it up to play. He notices with a glance at a little-used camera over the kitchen door that Sherlock's body parts are labelled and have been moved to a shelf of their own in the refrigerator.

Outside the flat, though, that's where the real changes are happening. Sherlock is taking on cases for the Yard that aren't even a challenge for him (Mycroft can be certain of this because he solves most of them in minutes, which means they can't possibly be taking Sherlock much longer). He's apprehending suspects himself (much to Detective Inspector Lestrade's chagrin) even when he doesn't have private questions for them. He hands out fifty-pound notes to homeless people on the streets, and it is only much later that Mycroft realizes he's been handing them out to people who are not a part of his spy network.

And John Watson oversees everything, all of it, with one hand on his mug of tea and the other ready to offer Sherlock if he needs it.

Mycroft assigns a protective detail to John, and is startled to find that his reasons have nothing to do with Sherlock.

It's the tea that finally tips him off. He goes over to Baker Street again, with the excuse of another case for Sherlock (it's uninteresting and Sherlock refuses; though he's grown accustomed to accepting such things from Scotland Yard, agreeing to them for his brother is still somewhat beyond him). John, like every time he visits, offers tea.

Mycroft realizes that John makes the perfect cup of tea.

_Always._

He stares down at the mug in his hand, milk and sugar exactly as he likes it – and John has never, ever asked him how he takes his tea. The room falls quiet around him, save for the soft sounds of Sherlock's sipping from his own cup. Mycroft is willing to bet that John has never had to ask Sherlock how he takes his tea either.

Finally, he raises his gaze from the mug to meet John's eyes, and sees in them exactly what he expects.

Nothing special.

Just calm, quiet, self-effacing John. Just polite, steadfast, indomitable John.

And then Mycroft understands what it is he's always seen in John Watson; why he's always felt that fierce rush of affection, protection, loyalty for him.

John is the spirit of Britain personified.

And Mycroft loves him.


End file.
